


Keeping Busy

by kleine_aster



Category: Batman (Comics), Superman (Comics)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Massage, Retirement, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:08:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleine_aster/pseuds/kleine_aster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I asked for fic prompts, and a kind anon gave me this – "I think Superbat cute-old-retired-couple fluff would be sweet. Could be a date, day in the life, pillow talk, something like that. They still keep in touch with their teams/families, but it's just them having some time alone together."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Busy

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Keeping Busy  
>  **Pairing:** Superbat  
>  **Summary:** I asked for fic prompts, and a kind anon gave me this – "I think Superbat cute-old-retired-couple fluff would be sweet. Could be a date, day in the life, pillow talk, something like that. They still keep in touch with their teams/families, but it's just them having some time alone together."  
>  **Words:** 3,566  
>  **Notes:** I've wanted to write this from the minute I got it, but it took me a looong time because I was really wrestling with the concept of Bruce going into retirement, which I think shows in this fic. XD I feel like this is one of the fluffiest things I've written for this fandom, but it still turned out bittersweet. And then it gets _really_ sappy at the end, yikes!

Clark can sense him across eight rooms and the indoor swimming pool.

It puts a frivolous, age-inappropriate spring in his step, but he wills himself to be quiet, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. He's going to approach really softly, and then he's going to waltz into Bruce's home office with a flourish and announce, "Honey, I'm home!", and it'll be really humorous.

He's seen that in many of those domestic comedies that Pa would sometimes have on at home, he's seen it on countless TVs playing in the hospitals he makes benefit visits to; and it always gets big laughs.

He's long since wanted to do that with someone.

He's still not quite over the fact that he can.

He doesn't want to pry, so he applies his super-hearing only briefly to check on him. The low thrum of Bruce's pulse is as sturdy and steady as ever, spiked only by what Clark identifies as an over-indulgence in coffee. He can picture him now, presumably lost in thought, pouring over some international newspapers he's spread across his desk. That, in turn, makes Clark picture _Bruce_ spread across his desk, and he can feel the rate of his own heart pick up as he moves closer. They've only been apart for three days, really, but if you've spent most of your life _apart_ , from everything and everyone whose touch you longed for, three days can be much.

Of course, he could've flown in every night to slink into bed and bury his face in the crook of Bruce's neck. But those Daily Planet reunions tend to turn into all-night drinking binges at the drop of a hat, even more so when it's in Vegas and Jimmy Olsen is hosting. _Someone_ has to help them all find their hotel rooms in the morning, and keep them from drunkenly ordering luxury yachts on the internet at 5 am, and who'd be better suited for that than good, old, reliable, alcohol-intolerant Clark Kent? 

Apart from that – the _bed_ would be that last place he'd find Bruce on weekends like this. Clark knows that his partner enjoys his occasional time alone, when he can immerse himself in the newest studies on engineering, intelligence, chemistry, linguistics, and all his other obsessions without the presence of a statuesque alien distracting him.

They actually share most of these interests, so technically, it's not even a distraction; but when they're together, well, sometimes they get side-tracked.

Clark takes off his bike helmet, smoothes his messy black hair and fusses over his tie and his dark-rimmed glasses, cautious not to make a sound. And then, he swings open the door, and bounces inside like he's seen those TV husbands do it over and over.

"Honey, I – "

He trails off when he's faced with the blank, distracted stare Bruce gives him. The handsome billionaire is wearing a headset and seems to be talking to at least a dozen people simultaneously, every screen in the room projecting the symbol of one of his Batman, Inc. associates. He looks like a mix between a sexy silver fox-type secret service operative, and the world's oldest, but also best-dressed wedding DJ.

It's highly derailing, and Clark hears himself stumble through what's left of his line.

"…'m home…?"

Bruce doesn't laugh. There's silence, and then a chuckle coming from one of the speakers.

"That's _him_ , isn't it," Jason Todd says dryly.

" _Of course_ that's him, genius," Damian scolds him from another line. "Who else would even think of calling him that?"

"HI CLARK," a chorus of Bats cheerfully greets him, with the exception of the Bat standing in front of him.

Clark feels the heat levels rise in his face as he sheepishly replies, "Hi… everyone..."

But then, Bruce looks at him, straight-faced, and soberly says, "I know you are. I saw your bike on the intercom."

And somehow, _that_ makes it funny.

Clark lowers his head and bites down on his lip as he chuckles, his big shoulders twitching.

"Good meeting," Bruce tells the gang, seamlessly and businesslike. "Take care, everyone." He sneaks a glance in Clark's direction. "I'm signing off."

There's more chatter as everyone shouts their farewells, and then the line is disconnected. Bruce pops off his headset.

"You didn't have to," Clark points out, suddenly feeling flustered about it, like he's intruding. He never wants Bruce to think he's intent on hogging time away from his work or his extended family. "I could've waited - "

Bruce comes over. And then _there_ it is, a gleam in his steely blue eyes, a barely noticeable softening of his impeccable jawline. 

A layer of warmth coating his deep drawl. "Welcome home."

_Home._

The way he says it is so casual, and yet, it means … it means much.

The kiss they share comes easily and comfortably. Clark sighs against the curve of Bruce's lips. He can't resist gently stroking the other man's bristly chin, feeling the rare, salt-and-pepper stubble against his fingertips. Bruce lets out a soft growl of contentment.

"I meant to shave before you came back …," he then points out. His vanity has only escalated since he's went into semi-retirement, for the one thing that could keep Bruce Wayne from his grooming was a supervillain-related all-nighter. Never mind the fact that he could probably grow a monstrous beard and choose to wear sweatpants exclusively for the rest of his life, and Clark would still find him attractive.

"Works for me," he assures him, draping one arm around him to pull him close and plant another soft kiss on his forehead. He can hear Bruce's sturdy heart flutter in his chest, and a second later, he can feel it, too, and maybe it's not the coffee this time. Clark takes in the way he feels, the way he smells, and experiences that surge of elation that you only get once you've _decided_ on someone, and then against all odds, that person has chosen you too.

They stay like that, until Clark thinks of something. "I got you a present."

Bruce crosses his arms, and watches him rummage in his slightly too-hip-for-his-age messenger bag. "It's only been three days, that wasn't necessar – oh." 

His eyes widen in awe when Clark presents it to him with a proud smile. "It's. It's _hideous_."

Clark grins. It's a tacky vintage Batman alarm clock, 100% painted plastic, depicting the Caped Crusader riding his Bat-cycle, grinning like a maniac. Since no-one knows what his face really looks like, the renditions of it are always extra-crude. It plays a rousing theme every full hour, and changes colors with the weather. 

Clark thinks it's exquisite. But then, Clark can never pass up a good piece of Bat-memorabilia, much to Bruce's dismay.

"I came across it in a dime store, and it made me think of you," he says, shrugging innocently. "Don't ask me why. Look what a nice shade of purple the cape is!"

Bruce glowers up at him, weighing the ticking monstrosity in his hands. "Lovely," he snarls, but Clark can tell he isn't really mad, "It'll go great with the Bat-bath salt and the egg warmers with the pointy ears."

"That's what I thought!" Clark enthuses, but then he pulls out the folded napkin and holds it out to him. "And here's your _real_ present."

Bruce looks suspicious at this point, but he takes it, anyway. He gladly puts down the Bat-clock to unfold the note, and Clark can tell from the way his cheeks flush and his pulse picks up that he immediately knows what it is. "These are the safe-houses of every leading drug operator in the city," the Dark Knight determines accurately, trying not to sound too excited.

"I had a free afternoon," the Man Of Steels admits. "For, um. Sightseeing. I thought maybe Nightwing or Batgirl would like a trip to Vegas."

He waits for a reaction, and tries to look extra humble while he does. The truth is, he loves helping out the Bat people. At the same time, he knows that Bruce has … complicated feelings towards his help, always has, and sometimes things that seem little to Clark still set off his territorial behavior.

It's not a secret to anybody who knows him that Batman doesn't do semi-retirement very well. When he does it at all. They're happy now, but the road toward it has been bumpy during the best of times.

But he seems in the mood to accept it.

"Junior Falcone is running Vegas now?!" He hisses, still caught up in reading the information. "But … he's completely incompetent! He set the family yacht on fire! Who let that happen?"

"Well, nepotism has wreaked havoc on the crime community down there," Clark relates. Bruce's palpable interest makes his heart skip merrily. "In fact, I think Lois is doing an exposé on it."

Lois Lane, much like Clark, is at an age where she could have easily retired, decorated with awards and honors. But, much like Bruce, she has a hard time quitting what she loves best, her mind and her pen still as sharp as ever. Bruce and her actually bond over that whenever she visits.

"Interesting," Bruce mumbles, and Clark can tell that in his mind, he's already unraveling the web of crime detailed on his napkin-map. But to his surprise, he then stows it away, focusing his attention back on him. Bruce's cool blue eyes are as intense as they ever were, and seeing them fixed on him with that much purpose gives Clark the chills; not the bad kind.

"I've learned something too while you were away," the old Dark Knight announces.

Clark gives him a lopsided smile. "You mean, you've found something you didn't already know?" He teases him gently. Ever since they've moved in together – spending their winters at Wayne Manor and their summers at the Kent farm – Bruce has repeatedly baffled and fascinated Clark with his capacity to absorb information. Hanging up the cowl – for the most part – hadn't been easy for him, and he's compensated by mastering the few domains he hadn't already while he was active. He's learned at least 8 new languages over the last few years, has become a farming expert, has written a couple of books on intelligence technology under a pseudonym, and during an especially uneventful fall, Clark had once caught him in the middle of the night studying every brand of tea in human history. For every evening Clark had gotten Bruce to sit on the porch, smell the air and watch the sunset, there's been at least three restless nights dedicated to developing a brand new strand of genetically improved crop, or building a cleaning robot from scratch.

It had been fun sometimes, difficult at others.

Clark does his best to make it easier for him. Whenever he can, he takes him to new, exciting places, to ancient ruins in the deep jungle, to sunken underwater landmarks, to colorful celebrations all across the world, and even to different planets. And Bruce loves it, but Clark can tell that he misses haunting the night, every night.

Bruce wastes no time with explanations. "Let me demonstrate. Take off your jacket, and sit down on the couch," he prompts his Kryptonian partner.

"That sounds promising," Clark quips, unzipping his bike jacket. He's gifted with the ability to fly anywhere, but in the time he's been with Bruce, he's discovered his enthusiasm for motorcycles. He'd fallen in love with the heavy feeling of the machine underneath him, the thrill of racing up and down the hills around his hometown, or partaking in the dramatic traffic around Gotham City. He also quite enjoys the frequent stern, concerned lectures Bruce gives him about bike safety, even though he'd have to slam into a wall of Kryptonite to get into trouble. 

And it's a great activity to share with not only Bruce, but also with Dick Grayson, whom Clark proudly calls his son now. They'd even gotten Kon-El to get in on it.

It all got started when he and Batman, during one of their last big missions together, had gone undercover in a biker gang. He relishes that sweet memory. And of course, the memory of all those unspeakable things they'd later done with that leathery bike gear. That's the part they don't tell the boys about.

He can feel Bruce's eyes on him as he peels off his jacket. "The sweater, too," he then adds in his dark, perfectly authoritative voice.

He walks over to his desk while Clark rids himself of his wooly, cozy sweater. Curious, Clark sits himself down on the couch. When Bruce returns, he doesn't sit down next to him. Instead, he climbs over the backrest behind him, and then Clark finds himself encased between his big, strong legs, with Bruce's firm body pressed against his back.

A great place to be.

"What …," Clark inquires, but then he gets distracted when an aromatic, piny fragrance creeps into his nose. Bruce has opened the little bottle he's procured from his desk. Then, he rubs something on Clark's exposed back, and a pleasant heat is pooling across his skin.

"It's a very powerful massage oil, they only make it in Finland," Bruce answers his question. And then, he adds, "I ordered it in bulk."

"Massage," Clark echoes, "But – "

He's never received a massage before. His body is as warm and responsive as anyone else's, but his skin is thicker and his muscles are harder than anything any human would be used to. Thanks to Bruce's fearlessness and diligence, Clark had eventually been lucky enough to experience the joys of sex; and after months of practicing and experimenting, they'd even figured out how to have _great_ sex. And Clark has massaged Bruce multiple times, applying all his speed, senses and skill to soothe his weary muscles, but he'd never thought he'd once find himself at the receiving end of it.

"I don't think - " he starts nervously, but then he squirms against his partner with a soft "Nhnnn," as Bruce digs his fingers into his shoulders, and something in them just _loosens_ , just like that. 

"You feel that, don't you," Bruce purrs next to his ear, sweet triumph in his voice.

"I d-do," Clark groans. And it feels like heaven. Bruce smiles against his skin. Clark can hear his breathing, feel his pulse. Both is a little quicker now, but still measured.

Technically, he's the last person on earth to need a massage, since he can still literally re-locate a building with his hands without straining himself. But right now, Bruce is doing incredible things with his fingers, spreading warmth everywhere, detecting even the tiniest tensions in his massive back, and making them _melt_ somehow. It's absolutely wondrous.

"How do you to that," Clark breathes, and is surprised how husky his voice suddenly is. 

"Science, Clark," Bruce responds with confidence, while he lets his coarse, slippery fingers wander deeper. "While you were gone, I brushed up on my knowledge about the body's pressure points, and cross-referenced it against the things I've learned about your anatomy. Then, I re-visited everything Alfred has ever taught me about relaxation techniques, and threw it all in a blender."

He parks his stubbly chin on one of Clark's heaving shoulders. "Does it work?" He asks, in a tone that suggests he already knows.

There's only one good reply to that question. " _Hrrghndontstop._ "

"I won't."

A moan comes from Clark lips. He doesn't fight it, he doesn't mind letting Bruce know what it's doing to him. He honestly doesn't know what's better, the way Bruce's fingers are now kneading their way down his spine, or the fact that his partner has apparently dedicated his free weekend to figuring out how to spoil him like this. He hears Bruce's blood rush through his veins, and grinds his back into him to see if something's growing down there.

"Tsk," Bruce pinches him with his steely thighs. "I don't get aroused while administrating a massage, Clark, it's sleazy," he scolds him.

"I like it when you're sleazy…" Clark reminds him, eyes closed. Bruce had been his teacher in all things sex, and he couldn't have asked for a better one.

"That comes later," his partner assures him in a gentler voice. He drums the sides of his hands against Clark's back for a while, then reaches up to stroke the firm muscles in his neck, wringing another throaty moan out of him. Clark leans into his touch. He doesn't even know if he wants to throw him down and make fierce, passionate love to him, or softly fall asleep in his arms, or possibly both, somehow. Bruce's hands are warm, and slick with scented oil. It's more than a treat. It's pure comfort. It's _home_.

Once, at the start of their friendship and their respective careers, Lois had been assigned to do a relationship column. She'd not been thrilled about it, but she'd thrown herself into it anyway, since she was a trooper like that. Anyway, once she'd told Clark over coffee that one of the biggest problems in relationships was how easily people took things for granted, and subsequently got lazy.

Clark would never know. Because he's never experienced that.

That's the flipside of it, of Bruce's obsessive desire to keep busy. As much as Clark tries to get him to slow down and relax, he's still tasting the benefits of it, he tastes them every day. And he's grateful for it.

"You're good to me," he whispers, eyelids fluttering on half-mast. His entire body is softening, except for that sweet, familiar feeling of tightness in his loins.

Bruce accepts the compliment as he always does, by saying nothing. But then, he interrupts the massage to scratch his ears. 

"You're good for me," he grumbles.

Clark reaches behind to muss his hair. They're both graying in different ways, Bruce's hair is peppered with silvery grey, while Clark's slowly turns white from the sideburns up. Neither of them has ever considered dyeing. Clark isn't vain, and in Bruce's line of work, even getting to his age is a remarkable achievement.

"You know…" Clark says as Bruce resumes rubbing his neck with his magical hands. It's probably not the right moment to get all wistful, what with the sexy massage and all, but he can't help it. He's voiced this sentiment before, but he still feels as if it can't be said often enough.

"You know, I never thought I'd have this one day," the Kryptonian finishes quietly. And it's true. For most of his life, he'd resigned himself to the fact that, despite being liked and admired, despite having the best friends he could have asked for, he'd always be alone. That he'd know love, but he'd never know _this_. Closeness, intimacy. Bliss.

But then, of course, Batman had taken all his expectations, and tossed them out the window, because that was what he did.

He can tell that Bruce is affected by his words, from the way the movement of his hands grows slower, more tentative. After while, he says, dryly but not unkindly: "Well, _I_ never thought I'd be alive."

He lets out a small "Oh," when Clark's entire body tenses at that. And then patiently starts to massage him all over again.

Clark doesn't argue with him. He knows Bruce is right. Bruce, Batman, has never gone about his business as if he expected to grow old. Clark still remembers that first night they'd really been together, how shocked he'd been to discover how broken Batman's body really was. Not on the outside, of course. On the outside, most of it had been expertly treated and healed. But not to Superman's heightened senses. He'd felt it, every scar, every cut, and underneath that, every torn muscle, every fracture, every shattered, mended bone. But the man himself, he'd never been broken, and nobody knew that better than Clark.

Still, he remembers how crushed (and scared) he'd been when he'd first felt it. And he'd pulled him to his chest, and held him really, really tight until Bruce had started to complain.

Bruce Wayne, back broken twice, one heart attack, more traumatic injuries and stress-induced ulcers than even Clark can count, and yet – 

"Yet you are," he says firmly, turning to look at him. "You are alive - "

"Don't crane your neck," Bruce growls, gently cupping his chin to make him face the other way again. But then, he places a soft, lasting kiss on his shoulder. The feel of his lips indicates a smile.

"I am," he confirms, and he doesn't sound displeased about it at all.

Clark wants to tell him that he'll do everything he possibly can to have it stay that way for another long, long while. But he doesn't. With the two of them, it had never really been about the words and the declarations and the promises, it had always been about the things they actually did for each other. So for now, Clark sinks against the firm warmth of Bruce's living, breathing body, and simply enjoys that it's there.

His eyes fly open when he feels his partner's stubble brush against his skin again.

"Now, for the next portion of this," Bruce explains in his deep, dark voice, "I think it might be better if you lie down …"


End file.
